ONE FRIDAY ON A FARAWAY HILLSIDE

A timeworn road ... one seemingly leading to oblivion and death for the three broken figures trudging this ancient path.

Only seven days prior, One of these – the One with blood oozing from that ring of jagged wounds embellishing His temple and skull – walked another road very close by. Only that time He was the Victor, the newly hailed King ... liberator from those arrogant conquerors who shook iron fists and brought destruction to the rightful owners of this once promised land. On that day, a mere week ago, most from this same host of onlookers raised their arms in praise, lifted up His name in adoration and paved a bright green carpet for Him and His young fur chariot to ride along as He took His rightful Throne.

Forever down through time, that celebratory moment had been talked about – expected with anticipation ... longed for by a multitude of generations with a bloodline leading back to one single union in a magnificent garden. A place where harmony had once ruled when a loving Father formed a bright new world for a man and his soulmate to walk with no fear of anything ... not even death.

Tens of centuries later – and in this other timeframe, merely a fraction of time adding up to just seven days – these three now stumble over rocks and weeds, bowed down from the crushing weight of roughly hewn beams as their bare shoulders balance the one belonging to them alone. That One in the middle – the One who has thorns digging into His head’s soft flesh and penetrating ever deeper with each plodding step – never utters a word ... not one ... as that same crowd now raise their fists in anger and hate, determined to rid the world of this mere man whom they declare smashed their dreams into smithereens.

“Why didn’t He condemn these Romans?” “He said He was the Messiah...” “We all did...” “Well, I wanted Him to be, but now look at Him ... He’s a nothing, a liar, a coward who won’t even fight back...” “He should be ashamed of Himself getting our hopes up like that.” “Yeah, good riddens...”

“If only you knew Him like I do. He is the Messiah and nothing like you say.” A gentle whisper floating on the wind.

“Did you hear that? Who said it?” “She did ... that one over there...” “Her? The one leaning on the arm of that burly looking bloke?” “Yeah, her. They were pushing past me and I heard her say it.” “Hang on, isn’t that Mary?” “Mary who?” “The one everyone used to talk about – the young girl from Nazareth who had a Baby before she married Joseph ... they say the Baby wasn’t even his...” “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.” “I have and yeah, it is her.” “Isn’t she His mother?” “Whose mother?” “His – that one in the middle who’s about to die for speaking blasphemy – the one Pilate washed his hands of.” “Nooo, that can’t be right! He’s an itinerant and just hangs around with sinners and a bunch of smelly fishermen; she lives with her husband and all those other kids.” “Maybe, but it is her.” “But they go to Synagogue and celebrate Shabbat every week ... you must be wrong.” “No, I’ve seen them together – she’s always hanging around that crowd of His – they’re a raggedy bunch of hangers-on who follow Him wherever He goes.” “And now look at Him – just a bag of bones about to die the way He deserves...” “Yeah, good riddens...”

As the woman and her small band of companions press through the mocking crowd that blocks their path, her sorrowful dark eyes never waver from His silhouette – not even when the morning sun blazes between two stone buildings that line the road. Those bright rays blind her for a moment ... but then she catches sight of Him again and presses forward once more. Mile after mile she follows her Beloved Boy, well knowing He is about to take that final breath that will separate them forev—

“But wait ... wasn’t there a purpose? I know God had a plan ... one of His angels told me ... long ago ... I just have to trust He knows what He’s doing ... like I did that other time...” the thought scurries through her befuddled mind.

The procession has been growing steadily ... more join in as the road gets longer. A band of soldiers clad in Roman garb and with swords in their hands lead the way. Behind them shuffle those weary three – much slower now as their terrible fate awaits – and after that miles and miles of eager followers, though not the kind that One in the middle is used to.

The semi-paved road turns into what looks like a goat’s track when it reaches the bottom of a steep and rugged hill. The throng pauses for a moment – some sombre, some crying, while others are eager to see this thing done – each one peering up to where Pilate’s reluctant edict is about to be played out for all the world to see ... both now and down through time.

“Get up there, you lot, don’t dawdle. It’s after breakfast and I’m off duty soon.” “Yeah, hurry up, I’ve got better things to do than hang around here all day with a bunch of wailing Jews.” “Hey, you with the crown of thorns on your head, pick that up again and put it back on your shoulders.” “No, wait. Here, let me help.” “Hey, get behind the others. This has nothing to do with the likes of you. This here’s Caesar’s business, not yours.” “But can’t you see He’s too weak to haul that horrible thing any further. He’s a prophet, not a workman.” “I heard He once was a carpenter – used to carrying heavy loads.” “Maybe, but that must’ve been a long time ago from the look of His hands - I can't see any callouses even through all those blisters and all that blood - and I don’t mind helping.” “Well hurry up then, but don’t expect any favours. You’re lucky someone cares about you, ‘Mr so-called King of the Jews’. Now get back up on your feet and don’t make us stop again.”

The summit is closer now – only a few steps away. Even the soldiers are worn out from lumbering up the hill with this sorry bunch. Huge drops of sweat drip from beneath their helmets to land in big dark splotches on the dusty path between their leather-bound feet. Only a little bit further to go – and then...

“Right, I need every one of you to pull your weight. You get started on him, and you over there can take care of that one. Hey you, come and help me with this troublemaker, and make sure you do everything I say. I don’t want Pilate’s wrath coming down on us and I especially don’t want that Jew rabble getting up in arms because we didn’t do it right. They’re bad enough at any time but this lot are really on the warpath today.” “Yes, sir.” “And everyone else, just sit down and watch from over there. I don’t want this turning into a circus – what we’re doing is serious stuff and it’ll take all day.” “What about them, sir?” “Who?" “Those women and that man over there...” “What about them?” “They’re some of His followers ... and His mother.” “Oh, right. Thanks for the warning. Hey! Yeah, all of you. I don’t want to hear anything out of any of you while we get on with doing our jobs. Not one word...”

Loud echoes from hammers hitting steel reverberate over and around the rocky terrain, then down into the valley below. Each blow brings cringes and groans from some of the onlookers, while most just scoff and laugh. Two of those inflicted with this excruciating pain beg for mercy and scream in agony, while the other One just grits his teeth and groans softly, even when His broken body flinches and spasms with every blow ... hot sweat runs in rivulets down His now naked form.

Suddenly there are three loud thuds and two agonising screams of pain. The waiting crowd flinch as a trio of wooden crosses shudder when they hit the earth at the bottom of the small deep holes already dug for them. And still that One in the middle utters not a word, though sticky drops of fluid ooze from his brow – a mixture of blood and sweat.

Over to one side, a soldier picks up the dusty garments that once covered Him – now bloody ... all that’s left is a sodden mess. He tosses them – including the fine linen tunic – towards four soldiers ... those who have just carried out this most ugly deed. A shout goes up ... “Some for each of us – divide it equally!” and then an answer, “One quart each, then cast lots for His tunic. It’s far too fine to tear up.” A flurry of ribald laughter as the first piece is ripped into four, while another throws a die to see who wins the prized garment with no seams – a gift from a mother for her beloved Son – now fulfilling an age-old prophecy.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do...” Words spoken with an authority far stronger than anyone in His sorry state should have the energy even to mutter through lips as dry as His – and yet each one echoes over the heads of those sitting, standing, even lying on the dusty ground waiting for the end – His end. The soldiers don’t seem to care, but it flows into the ears of some in the multitude.

“What was that? What did He say?” “I think He was asking for forgiveness...” “And so He should – nothing but trouble, just a rabblerouser if you ask me.” “No, not for Him, for us.” “What? Us?” “Yeah, something about forgiving us because we don’t know what we’ve done.” “I haven’t done anything!” “Me either!” “Nor me ... it’s them Roman soldiers – it’s all their fault – look at them up there casting lots for His clothes and before He’s even dead.” “Too right!” “Yeah, and that mongrel, Caesar...” “But what if He does mean it for all of us?” “What are you getting at?” “Well, we were all yelling just as loudly as the others when He was trudging up the street with that lump of wood on his back.” “Yeah, and you threw that rock at Him when He dropped it.” “Mmm, well maybe I shouldn’t’ve, after all I’ve never met Him – funny, last week I thought He was the Messiah ... now...” “We all did...” “Yeah, in some ways I still wish He was ... I’ve never even heard a whisper that He treated anyone badly...” “No, me neither, in fact, I heard He was the exact opposite – kind and compassionate to everyone, no matter what they’ve done before...” "Yeah, I heard that, too...” “Maybe the authorities have got it wrong after all...”

A pair of eyes, dry from the north wind’s touch, slowly scans the crowd. His gentle gaze rests for a moment on every onlooker while moving from one face to the next. With that caring look, any further comments drift away and most drop their eyes – several in confusion ... and a few in shame.

This supposed criminal then turns His head further – encompassing His reluctant companions, one on either side. He has heard their comments – one mocking ... the other shamefaced and repentant – and speaks directly to one. “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” A river of tears rolls down the second fellow’s face as he looks into those eyes filled with compassion – and that One nods slowly in affirmation, His gaze never flinching.

The invisible hour hand moves on. The sun gets hotter and the skin covering these suffering bodies grows another shade darker as the pigment burns. Over to one side, He can hear a woman’s soft cries and struggles to lift His head. Glancing across to the tiny group, he recognises three women – each with the same name – and most especially the one who gave birth to Him in a draughty stable in a small faraway town. There is one other He recognises – His best friend. The expression on His face conveys a mixture of compassion and love as He addresses them both. “Woman, this is your son. This is your mother.” The duo clasp hands, recognising the care this Suffering Man has for their welfare ... even more than his own – each one for the other ... and both in different ways.

“Where’s His father? Shouldn’t he be taking care of the mother – that one’s not even a relation.” “I don’t know, He’s not from round here.” “I don’t know either.” “Isn’t his father Joseph?” “I’m not sure. But if it is, he’s already dead.” “And the One up there was born before they were married. I’m from Bethlehem and I heard the rumours. They couldn’t even stay in the country – some King was after them so they fled – it must’ve been because of the scandal...”

More minutes pass – long and steady and offering no relief from the agony flowing through every pore of those three bodies hanging in the air with the blood now dry on their flesh – parched from the hot noonday sun. Without warning, a shroud of darkness covers the whole place – no let up and no glimmer of light anywhere. The crowd screams in unison and many fall to the ground, terror written in their eyes with no understanding of what is going on or why the sun has disappeared for no reason.

Sixty minutes now and the black pall is still there. A desperate voice rings out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” It is Him – the one in the middle who still hasn’t uttered one bad word to his tormentors.

“Who’s this God He’s talking about?” “I don’t know – maybe it’s Caesar...” “Or Pilate.” “No, remember He’s a Jew – it must be Yahweh – you know, the one they all pray to.” “Oh, yeah.” “No wonder His God’s forsaken Him – He won’t even plead for mercy.” “Yeah, He sure is a weirdo.” “Or maybe He’s something more and we just haven’t seen it.” “What do you mean?” “Well, think of all the things He has said from up there – taking about forgiveness, something about Paradise, and then there was that thing to His mother making sure she was okay ... but nothing for Himself.” “Yeah, strange. I’ve never been to a crucifixion like this one before.” “Me neither.”

The earth stays under this dark cloak for another hour – while the three still hang there, slowly suffocating.

“Hey, did you hear that?” “What?” “He’s asking for something to drink – must be thirsty.” “No wonder ... it’s been over four hours since we shoved those crosses in the ground ...” “Oh, look, what’s that they’re giving Him?” “From the colour it looks like wine.” “Yuck, bet it’s gone off in the heat – it’ll be sour by now.” “Can’t say I’d want any.” “Me neither, but I do have a bit of water left ... here, want some?” “Yeah, thanks...”

“It is finished ... Father into your hands I commend my spirit.”

Another soft cry carries on the wind as this last gasp leaves her Son’s mouth. A trio of comforting arms embrace the grieving mother as she comes to terms with the fact He is gone now – far too early and in such a ghastly way, while her new son bows his head in sadness at the loss of his much-loved Friend.

In amongst all this anguish, the earth begins to shake – rumbling, grumbling as large rocks split and roll down the steep hillside. Those in the crowd are terrified – running and tumbling all over the place, seeking a safe haven to hide while the gods mete out their wrath – at least that’s what they think. His mother knows – she fears this is His True Father’s heart breaking, from the knowledge their Beloved Son has gone where all others fear to tread, when He shouldn't have. He hasn't done anything wrong - not even once in His entire thirty-three years.

Only a few soldiers, His mother and friends are left now – along with a few stragglers with unanswered questions left hanging in the air. All the rest have scattered to their homes for shelter.

One – a brave captain of one hundred soldiers – stands to his feet then bows his head. “Surely He was the Son of God,” this lone voice cries out, speaking a truth now becoming obvious to many.

The eyes of those others left behind meet across the almost empty expanse ... some nod in agreement, while most bow their head in regret.

“Surely not...” “What have we done?” “God, forgive us...” are the whispers heard on their lips as that now pierced body is taken down from the Cross and placed in His mother’s arms for the last time ... oozing those last drops of life-giving blood across the parched earth ... and into eternity...